


Scales

by IneffableMarten



Series: GOvember [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Humanity (Good Omens), GOvember, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Unbeta'ed, angsty middle but i promise it ends well, little dialogue (only at the end)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:35:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27460546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableMarten/pseuds/IneffableMarten
Summary: Aziraphale remembers how he began as a Heaven's agent on Earth. He had a pair of ethereal scales that were a symbol of his mission - thwarting the evil one - but meeting Crowley made him question his nature: he fell in love with the opposite number. The angel is no longer sure what his life should really be about, but the answer eventually comes to him.[Day 4 of GOvember.]
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: GOvember [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2006314
Comments: 18
Kudos: 43





	Scales

**Author's Note:**

> My story for the prompt "Scales" (Day 4) from my GOvember writing challenge. It's not arriving at a proper time, but I'm also a whovian so timey-wimey.

It is a solitary night at Aziraphale’s bookshop. The angel is crouched over his desk in the dusty half-lit backroom: he is filling in a monthly tax form, ink trailing in short strokes from his fountain pen.

Occasionally, he stops to raise his head as if to recall a particular figure from last month’s sales, but his gaze is draped and distant, not quite there. He then catches sight of something else―a small golden stand on the window sill―and freezes.

 _Blob_. The pen stumbles and leaks.

“Oh dear”, mumbles Aziraphale and fusses with the documents, glancing back at the stand several more times because he can’t help it. His chest heaves and his brow furrows, almost in pain.

That stand is a source of many memories.

It used to support a pair of ethereal scales in Aziraphale’s possession―a piece issued by Heaven shortly after he had descended on Earth. Rather than to be utilised, they served as a constant reminder of the principality’s mission: smiting evil in the name of good. One of their sides was black and heavy so it would always outweigh the other one unless the angelic force performed the deeds to let their respective side of the scales prevail over it. The opposite number tirelessly operated, the instructions went, and must be confronted at all costs.

Aziraphale’s opposite number was Crowley.

They had frequently crossed paths already in the early days of human history and the air of politeness was quickly established―as it should have because they worked on the same territory, however opposing their missions were. Crowley was a primeval tempter whose influence had permanently banned humans from Heaven so Aziraphale took special pride in confronting him, even if by casual displays of smugness. More often than not, Aziraphale would come back to his lodgings after encountering the deeds of the evil force and mark that his side of the scales would be full and down. And he would be very pleased.

Slowly and inadvertently though, Aziraphale began to notice something in Crowley that didn’t at all align with his expectations, but was becoming more and more apparent: a glint of goodness. The angel knew what demons were like, callous and dully uninterested in the subtle workings of the species whose very lives they tried to meddle with. Crowley, in turn, displayed nothing whatsoever in common with that. His insights about humans were often astonishingly deep and that, not the sheer desire to be malevolent, led him towards one mischief or another. This set of traits looked so odd in a demon that it was almost―endearing? Aziraphale would catch himself baffled by that peculiar creature and, hard as it was for him to admit, he warmed up to Crowley.

Their meetings turned casual as centuries went by, and Aziraphale would often find that it wasn’t Crowley who he would really be trying to smite on that day. At times, they would talk for hours on end when a particularly hot topic had been touched upon. With smiting now off the table, the ethereal scales were collecting more dust than angelic deeds, and that meant the prevalence of the evil side far too often to Aziraphale’s liking. That was the moment when he first succumbed to his pangs of guilt and ventured to make amends to his head office by performing miracles almost uncontrollably, after which he received a firm (and mildly condescending) note from Gabriel that he really shouldn’t try to do this again. Aziraphale was more careful from then on but his relationship with the opposite number had become too complex to change back.

And then…

The thought of what came next makes Aziraphale shudder.

A very tangible string tightened between them in the end. They had begun to tread from the Arrangement into a realm of offering gestures to each other because they cared beyond the binding rules of it. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if Crowley could feel it, but he just knew the events had formed into a snowball that was undoubtedly going to hit them. And they wouldn’t be able to stop it.

Everything crushed during the London Blitz. That was when Aziraphale could finally put a finger on it.

_He and his enemy were in love._

The angel could hardly track the haze of the physical responses from his corporation or the emotions flooding into his mind at the time. He was a creature of love, that was his most natural state, yet the poignancy of his longing for Crowley nearly tore him at the seams right there, amidst the church remains.

What were they going to do about it?

They didn’t talk. Crowley drove Aziraphale to the bookshop and another shock came the angel’s way. His residence had been next to demolished by the sound wave from a second bomb dropped nearby. The ground floor was in shreds of broken glass, and Aziraphale knew what that meant instantly, the thought of the scales standing on the window sill alight in his mind. He raced inside, Crowley shouting something at his back, and there it was―the delicate frame of the scales completely shuttered on the carpet by his desk. Aziraphale had begun to tremble much earlier but now his hands picking up the scales seemed almost a blur in front of his eyes.

The scales couldn’t work anymore. None of the sides had stayed in place and none was to be found afterwards. Aziraphale used angelic powers to miracle back the lacking elements for the appearance’s sake, he knew Gabriel would check in and want to see them. But it was a fake appearance.

Aziraphale stood there, hunched over the pseudo-scales in his hands, face turned towards Crowley’s figure outside on the street. Their eyes met, fear plastered across the demon’s face in the way the angel had never seen before. Something in the way Aziraphale looked back at him told him not to enter.

Amidst the numb, torturous mess in his head Aziraphale sensed a high-pitched thought: _What sort of an angel am I?_ And the answer, equally faint, was: _A bad one_.

Life went on. It had to. Aziraphale promptly cleaned the mess up, restored the bookshop and put the scales back onto their stand on the window sill. He didn’t know what to do with them. In the end, he would hide them from sight as often as he possibly could. Or, perhaps, it was _him_ who hid from the sight of _them_ , instead. Even though Heaven had no idea about what had happened to the scales, he was a failure by getting carried away into something he had known was going to put an end to his mission. He should have cut it at the bud when he had had the chance, but he had been so self-centred.

Aziraphale and Crowley eventually abandoned their sides and became allies in the thwarting of Armageddon. As the world was reborn, they drank in every moment of the freedom at the Ritz, but where was that going to take them? Having returned home that night, Aziraphale put the scales into the desk drawer, thinking he had seen the last of them. But even though he lost faith in Heaven, he remained an angel nonetheless. What was his purpose now?

Aziraphale opens the drawer and stares at its contents.

 _What sort of an angel am I?_ The Questions echoes.

A doorbell above the entrance to the bookshop jingles, and Aziraphale’s concentration is broken. He shuts his eyes and sighs: another visitor to rid of in the late hours. Isn’t the door sign clear enough?

Aziraphale looks inside the drawer one last time before he is going to get up.

“Oi angel, I thought you were supposed to _serve_ your customers!”

The sound of that voice makes Aziraphale jump and swirl in his chair.

“Crowley!”

The demon is leaning against a bookcase―shades on, hands gripping a bottle of notoriously expensive wine. In mockery, he wants to seem disgruntled, but his eyebrows fly up and a grin forms on his mouth as Aziraphale looks up at him.

“Whatever are you doing here?”

“We-e-e-ll”, Crowley tilts his head to look directly at Aziraphale over the shades, “won’t you assume demons could start reading books, too? B’sides, I happened to find a Sauvignon in my cellar. You’ve worked by yourself long enough angel, and I need a companion.”

The Ritz happened four nights ago, and they haven’t seen each other since then. Aziraphale’s eyes are absorbing the sight of his visitor, and he thinks his heart has just bobbed up to his throat like a ball with a winning lottery number.

And just then, he knows The Answer.

_He is an angel who doesn’t want to smite._

His shoulders fall down, at last relaxed.

“Certainly. I will be right with you, it won’t take a tick.”

Aziraphale stands up, walks to the window sill and performs a miracle as his hand hovers over the remains of the scales and the stand, welding them into a new shape. Two glasses of champagne, absolutely balanced at the touching point, clinking at a perfect angle, captured in time forever.

Crowley is watching his movements utterly puzzled at first, but finally the realisation strikes him. The shades are off, the yellow eyes blow wide, the jaw drops.

“Is―”, he begins to say. He doesn’t get to finish because Aziraphale is now inches apart and blinding him with a full, open smile.

“Where were we?” the angel says. “Oh, the wine. A rather splendid occasion, I say, as just this morning one of my businessman regulars thanked me with a very nice set of wine glasses. Now, I just need to find them among the other ones I have, I got so absorbed by the paperwork that I don’t quite remember where they had gone to―”, Aziraphale goes on, walking past Crowley to the cupboard. “Pray, make yourself at home”, he adds encouragingly.

Crowley only stares back for a moment, then clears his throat, a smile beginning to twitch at the corners of his mouth.

“Alright”, is all he is able to say.

What do you know? A demon has been smitten, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first time posting a fanfic EVER. I'm very proud of doing it and of writing this piece. Because I'm so new to fanfiction sharing, I would like to ask you to PLEASE COMMENT AND CRITICIZE. It would help me improve tremendously.
> 
> There will definitely be more!
> 
> You can find me on Twitter and Tumblr @ineffablemarten - I post Good Omens meta and trivia, as well as WIP snippets. Would love to connect with you there!


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